Wait Until Dark

The sale of this book without its cover is unauthorized. If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that it was reported to the publisher as "unsold and destroyed." Neither the authors nor the publisher have received payment for the sale of this "stripped book."

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the authors' imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

An
Original
Publication of POCKET BOOK

POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc. 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

"Manna from Heaven" © 2001 by Karen Robards

"Stone Cold" © 2001 by Andrea Kane

"Once in a Blue Moon" © 2001 by Linda Kirchman Anderson

"'Til Death Do Us Part" © 2001 by Marti Robb

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

ISBN: 0-671-03655-6

First Pocket Books printing May 2001

10 987654321

POCKET and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

Front cover illustration by Lisa Litwack; photo credits: Yuen Lee/ Photonica; Tony Stone Images

Printed in the U.S.A.

C
ONTENTS

M
ANNA FROM
H
EAVEN

Karen Robards

S
TONE
C
OLD

Andrea Kane

O
NCE IN A
B
LUE
M
OON

Linda Anderson

T
IL
D
EATH
D
O
U
S
P
ART

Mariah Stewart

S
TONE
C
OLD

A
NDREA
K
ANE

1

"A HOUSE?"

Lindsey Hall feathered her fingers through her hair, a puzzled expression on her face. "I don't understand. Why would Harlan Falkner leave me a house?"

"A mansion, not a house," Leland Masters corrected. He regarded her steadily, whatever he was thinking masked behind a professional veneer he'd perfected over forty years. One of Providence, Rhode Island's most prominent attorneys, he'd represented the Falkners' interests since Harlan made his first million, some thirty-five years ago. Now, it was his job to carry out his client's final wishes.

He folded his hands in front of him, a formidable presence in an equally formidable office - all gleaming mahogany and polished tile - an office that Harlan Falkner's money had helped pay for. "You're aware of your relationship to Mr. Falkner."

Lindsey's smile was tight-lipped. "My relationship? If you mean my blood ties, yes, I know Mr. Falkner fathered me. But as for a relationship, we had none. I never even met the man. He made no attempt to contact me, not in twenty-six years. So why would he suddenly leave me a portion of his estate?"

Another thoughtful stare. Yes, he could see the resemblance. The same unusual coloring: fine, tawny hair, its hues ranging from gold to light brown and, in contrast, startlingly dark eyes. The same refined manner and natural grace. And the bone structure was there, although Miss Hall was slender and delicate in contrast to Harlan's larger, more towering presence. She probably took after her mother on that score.

She hadn't been at the will reading. Then again, she hadn't been invited. It was better that way. The reaction from Harlan's children would have been explosive. As it was, it hadn't been pleasant. It had, however, been predictable. Until last week, they hadn't known Lindsey Hall existed.

They knew now.

"Miss Hall, I don't think Harlan's - your father's - motives are the issue here. His provisions are. He left you the mansion in Newport, along with a sizable sum of money, to be used at your discretion."

"My discretion," she repeated, turning her palms up in noncomprehension. "What does that mean?"

"The mansion has been vacant for years. It needs to be restored. Harlan thought you might enjoy doing that. If so, a portion of your funds could be used to renovate the house in whatever manner you choose." Leland shrugged. "If not, you're welcome to sell it and keep the profit, along with the rest of the money he's left you. As I said, the choice is yours."

A flicker of anger flashed in her eyes, followed by a spark of curiosity. "Why was the mansion vacant?"

The attorney shrugged again. "It used to be a family vacation home. Circumstances changed. Lifestyles changed." He left it at that.

"I see." Obviously, she didn't see at all. Nor should she. But she changed the subject nonetheless. "What about Mr. Falkner's legitimate children? Wouldn't he leave the mansion to them?"

Leland had anticipated that question. "He thought you'd have a greater appreciation for it, based upon your career choice."

That was his second reference to her inclinations toward design, this one more pointed than the first.

It found its mark, and Lindsey Hall's delicate brows rose. "Are you saying Mr. Falkner was aware I'm an architect?"

"Mr. Falkner was aware of a great many things about you, Miss Hall. Your graduation with honors from Cooper Union, your unique contributions to the architectural firm you're currently working for in Connecticut, specifically the fine work you've done restoring classic old homes. Many things."

Lindsey's jaw dropped. "He kept tabs on me?"

"He kept abreast of your accomplishments."

She digested that with a jolt of surprise and an obvious swell of resentment. Based on her perception of things, Leland couldn't blame her. He could just imagine what she was thinking.

He didn't have to imagine long.

"Talk about too much, too little, too late," she commented bitterly. "Am I supposed to feel honored? Honored that Harlan Falkner followed my life like one of his high-yielding stocks - no, actually not as closely. In my case, no active participation was necessary. Not until now. Now, when he's gone and my existence can no longer tarnish his family's reputation, he's throwing me a bone? How gracious. It sounds like a payoff, Mr. Masters. A payoff from a man with a guilty conscience." She rose to her feet. "No mansion can compensate for Mr. Falkner's actions. Nor can money make up for what he did - not to me, but to my mother. I notice she's not mentioned in this will."

Leland tipped back his head, met Lindsey's angry gaze with a calm, steady stare. "No, she's not." He watched the controlled anger simmer in her eyes, and thought again how much like Harlan she looked and, perhaps, was. If she knew more, she might feel differently. But she didn't know more.

"Before you tell me to go to hell, I'd suggest you think this over," he advised quietly "Separate pride from pragmatism. Between the value of the mansion and the cash, we're talking about well over five million dollars. You can do a lot with that sum of money, Miss Hall, including anything you choose to do for your mother. She's past fifty now. She can't clean houses forever."

Lindsey opened her mouth, then pressed her lips together, a war taking place inside her. She was still gripped by questions and suppressed fury. She was also a realist - like her father. She knew Leland was right.

"Don't decide immediately," he suggested. "Take a day or two. Think it over - all of it."

"I'm going back to Connecticut tonight."

"Wait for morning." Leland reached into his desk, extracted a set of keys and a slip of paper with an address on it "I've made a reservation for you at a local hotel. Spend the night. Consider your options. In the meantime, use the rest of today to take a ride out to Newport. The mansion's less than an hour's drive from here. This is the address. Look it over. See what you think. Stop by my office tomorrow on your way home. You can give me your answer then." He paused, flourished a business card. "Here's my card. Call if you need anything."

Automatically, Lindsey took it, although she looked reluctant to do so.

"Looking costs you nothing other than time, Miss Hall. And a day might shed new perspective on what I know must be an emotional situation."

She nodded. "Very well." She turned to go.

"Oh, one more thing." Leland rummaged through the papers on his desk, extracted another business card. "Here."

"What's this?" She frowned, taking the card. Her frown deepened as she saw the name and phone number on it. "Nicholas Warner?"

"Yes, He's a major real estate developer in the Newport area, and a business associate of the Falkners."

"I know who he is, Mr. Masters. His name is in the newspapers almost as often as the Falkners'."

"True. In any case, he asked me to give you his number, just in case you decide to sell the house. He's very interested in buying it."

"Is he?" Lindsey's jaw tightened. "He didn't waste any time. Or is it just that he, like the Falkners, is so sure I'd prefer cash to property?"

Leland didn't respond, keeping his expression nondescript. "Whether or not you call him is up to you. As for the rest, give your inheritance some thought."

This time her nod was more definitive. "I intend to. She turned the keys over in her palm. "I'll ride out to Newport now. You'll have my decision by morning."

Leland watched her go, contemplating the ironies of life with bittersweet awareness. Then, he glanced down at the documents on his desk. "Well, Harlan," he murmured, "I did as you asked. I think you'd be pleased with the results."

2

HARLAN FALKNER MUST HAVE KNOWN
she'd fall in love with this place.

Lindsey came to the end of the winding gravel driveway, flipped off her windshield wipers, and turned off the engine. Hopping out of her modest Honda Civic, she stuffed her keys into her pocket strolling up the path and drinking in the structure before her with a combination of artistic appreciation and genuine awe.

It wasn't the most palatial estate she'd ever seen; certainly not glamorous enough to take its place on the Cliff Walk with the rest of Newport's historic mansions. Yet somehow that didn't matter. In fact, the manor's isolation and subtle grandeur gave it a distinctive flavor that enhanced rather than detracted from its beauty.

Set off by itself, the house stood amid acres of wooded land with the ocean as its backdrop. Gothic in design, it managed to combine the sophistication of a 19th-century mansion with the homeyness of a country cottage. Even the cold rain, gray skies, and restless ocean waters of the blustery May afternoon couldn't lessen its charm. It was lovely.

Lindsey pulled her windbreaker more closely around her, shivering a little as the rawness of the day penetrated her thin cotton sweater and jeans. This spring had been exceptionally cold and dismal. Not to mention that it was much chillier here by the ocean. She'd have to remember that and dress accordingly the next time she came - if there was a next time.

She climbed the five stone steps leading to the manor's front door and let herself in. The musty smells of long-time abandonment greeted her. That, and dust. It was everywhere, making her eyes water and her nose burn. She blinked away the tears that stung behind her lids, reaching over to test the light switch.

It worked.

The overhead chandelier came on. Its dozens of tiny bulbs were enough to illuminate not only the entranceway but a good portion of the main floor.

The rooms were huge, rich with mahogany floors and paneling. The walls were bare, but there were marks on the plaster indicating places where paintings had once hung. The moldings were exquisite, the lines classic and impeccable.

She turned slowly, admiring the grace and charm that no amount of dust could hide.

It was a crime that no one had cared for this beautiful home. Circumstances had changed, was Mr. Masters's explanation. Lifestyles had changed. That might explain why the Falkners no longer came here, but it didn't explain why they hadn't had the place kept up. Obviously, Mr. Masters didn't choose to provide details. Fine. But who could desert such a magnificent treasure?

The same man who'd deserted her mother.

Lindsey felt that familiar knot tighten her stomach. Five million dollars. To think what that kind of money would mean to her mother. Irene Hall had been cleaning houses for thirty years. She was worn out, partly from physical labor, partly from the emotional burden of raising a child alone and on a domestic's income.

It had improved a little these past few years. Lindsey was making enough money now to afford a decent two-bedroom apartment for her mother and herself. And her mother was only working three days a week now, instead of six. But even that was too much.

Today's announcement could change all that.

Lindsey approached the winding staircase, pausing to trail her fingers along the smooth surface of the banister, and gazed up toward the second story. Almost mechanically, she began to climb.

She couldn't help thinking how
taken
her mother would be by this house. Irene loved old manors. Many nights when Lindsey was sprawled out on the living room floor, working on architectural plans to restore an old mansion, her mother would sink into the sofa, exhausted from her day and yet fascinated by what Lindsey was doing. She'd watch, asking questions and expressing her admiration for the buildings' structure and design.

She'd adore this place. And if she could live here... She could.
If
Lindsey kept it.

The battle that had been going on inside Lindsey's head since her meeting with Leland Masters roared back to life.

She wanted nothing from Harlan Falkner. Nothing.

Still, a little voice inside her contended, what would be gained by refusing her inheritance? What would she be proving by signing away her rights to this manor, along with the fortune that went with it? The man she'd be lashing out at was dead. He'd never feel the sting of her retaliatory gesture. So what point did it serve? How would it hurt him? More important, how would it
help
her - by salvaging her pride? Pride didn't pay the bills. Nor did it offer her mother a shred of what she'd been denied all these years. She was entitled to that money - to that, and so much more.

True, Lindsey could sell the manor. That would solve her problem neatly. It would sever all ties to the Falkners, and leave her with a fortune in cash. She had a ready buyer. From what Mr. Masters said, Nicholas Warner was eager to take the place off her hands.

Why? Did he plan to restore it himself?

She shuddered in distaste. The man was a real estate developer, not to mention a big-time entrepreneur. The only thing he could want was to transform this magnificent dwelling into some ostentatious palace he'd then sell at a huge profit. Or worse, he could opt to turn it into a tourist attraction.

Odd that Harlan Falkner hadn't sold it to him already. He and Nicholas Warner were close business associates. Their respective fortunes had been co-invested time and again, the results of which were splashed across the pages of the business section. They shared the society pages, too, she reminded herself, traveling in the same circles, mingling with the same highly visible, affluent crowd. Nicholas Warner and Stuart Falkner, Harlan's son, had attended Harvard together. They were fast friends on the same fast track, chasing - or being chased by - a parade of fast women.

The frivolity of it all made her sick.

Still, that didn't answer her question. Why hadn't Harlan Falkner sold this property to Nicholas Warner rather than keep it only to neglect it so shamefully?

Some piece of the puzzle was missing. But what?

Lindsey had just stepped across the threshold of what had to be the master bedroom, when she heard the front door open, then click quietly shut.

She froze, standing rigidly as footsteps moved across the front hall.

Abruptly, she realized how isolated this place was, how vulnerable she'd left herself, and how stupid she'd been to leave the front door unlocked. The summer season didn't begin till Memorial Day, maybe later, if the weather didn't improve. That was three weeks away. Which meant very few people were around. And in this isolated section of town,
no one
was around. Any troublemaker or criminal could walk in and...

Reason intruded, stifled that thought. This neck of the woods might be isolated, but it was hardly a haven for vagrants. Conversely, by virtue of its deserted state, it wouldn't attract thieves. So, whoever had just walked in must have a purpose. Plus, her already-existing presence was hardly a secret. The first floor lights were on. The door was ajar. Her car was in the driveway.

Squaring her shoulders, she marched to the stairway, loudly making her descent. "Hello?"

"Hello," a cultured baritone replied.

Definitely not a criminal.

She descended the rest of the way, her visitor revealed by bits and pieces as she did. He was a walking advertisement for J. Crew, she observed, seeing first his docksiders, then his khakis, and finally his navy crewneck sweater. His arms were folded across his chest, one broad shoulder propped lazily against the wall as he watched her approach. His features were patrician, his raven-black hair thick, glistening with droplets of rain, his eyes a probing dark blue.

That probing gaze took her in from head to toe. "I hope I didn't frighten you."

Lindsey walked across the foyer and shook her head, tilting it back so she could meet his gaze. "You didn't. Although I am a little surprised to see you. Mr. Masters mentioned that you were interested in the property. But he didn't say you were chomping at the bit to the point where you'd follow me out here."

His lips quirked. "You obviously know who I am."

"I read the newspapers, Mr. Warner. You photograph accurately."

"And here I thought my pictures didn't do me justice."

"Newspaper shots rarely do anyone justice. But I'm sure you didn't ride out here for reassurance of your good looks."

She hadn't meant to sound quite so harsh. Clearly, her curt retort startled him. His dark brows rose ever so slightly, though he seemed more puzzled than offended.

"It's obvious we started out on the wrong foot, although I'm not sure why," he stated bluntly. "If it's because I frightened you when I walked in, I'm sorry. If it's because you resent my driving out here to talk to you, I didn't. I drove out to look over the property. I had no idea you'd be here. Actually, I'd planned on calling your hotel later and making an appointment to see you before you left for Connecticut."

"I see." She couldn't get angry at that. It was too honest - something she hadn't expected.

He extended his hand. "Let's try again. You must be Lindsey Hall. It's a pleasure to meet you. I'm Nicholas Warner."

Lindsey acknowledged the formal introduction with a polite smile and a handshake. "What gave me away - my Connecticut plates or my key in the front door?"

"Both. That and your striking resemblance to Harlan."

She'd noticed that, too, if only from photos. Still, her stomach tightened at hearing the observation spoken aloud, "I'll take your word for it. Mr. Falkner and I never met." The strain was back in her voice. But she couldn't help it. This subject was her Achilles' heel.

"I know," Nicholas Warner replied quietly. "Harlan regretted that."

"Did he?" Skepticism laced her tone.

"Yes."

She averted her gaze, stared into the empty mahogany living room. "You knew him well."

"Almost twenty years. He gave me my first break, backed the real estate investment that launched my career. He was a complex man, a brilliant businessman. He built his reputation deal by deal and dollar by dollar."

"And his wife? His children?" Lindsey forced her gaze back to his. "Where did they factor into things?"

Nicholas Warner studied her for a moment, that probing blue stare boring through her. "Stuart and Tracy meant everything to Harlan. They were his legacy, his reason for building an empire. As for his wife, Camille is a lovely, fragile woman, I'm sure you know about her situation. It's hardly a secret. If you've scoured the newspapers enough to spot my picture, then I'm sure you've read about Camille's difficulties."

Slowly, Lindsey nodded. "She's confined to some estate-like psychiatric facility."

"Rolling Hills. And, yes, she's been there for about seven years."

"That's quite a while. Does her family visit her?" Lindsey had no idea why she was asking these questions. Each detail she learned cut through her like a knife. But somehow she had to know.

"They visit frequently, yes." Nicholas's tone was cautious, as if he were sifting through his information and providing only those facts he felt Lindsey was entitled to. "Tracy lives in Boston. She runs a division of her father's company there. She drives down every chance she gets. Stuart goes more often, usually several times a week, since he lives right in Providence. Harlan used to go with him."

"Mr. Falkner's death must have come as a horrible blow to his wife."

"It did. As I said, Camille is fragile. Harlan was her world. His visits were her lifeline."

Lindsey swallowed hard, thinking of her own mother's reaction when she'd read of Harlan Falkner's death. Her lips had trembled, and her eyes had filled with tears - tears she'd made sure were gone by the time she folded and put down the newspaper. She'd dismissed the subject and pretended to go about her business, as if what she'd just read had been any upsetting but impersonal item. Lindsey hadn't been fooled. Late that night, she'd heard her mother's muffled sobs as she'd privately mourned a man she'd never really had but never stopped loving.

So, yes, Camille Falkner had undoubtedly been shattered by her husband's death. But at least she'd been allowed her grief. And at least she'd been bound to him, legally and emotionally, and, as a result, had lost something tangible. What had Irene Hall lost? A dream. A wisp of memory that was almost three decades old.

The injustice of it made Lindsey's heart wrench.

"He really did wish he'd known you, Lindsey," Nicholas murmured, watching her face. "Honestly."

Emotional shutters descended inside her. She didn't even know this man. She certainly wasn't going to bare her scars to him. "It wasn't me I was thinking of. In any case, I appreciate your candor, Mr. Warner. I hope my questions weren't intrusive."

"They weren't. And it's Nicholas." He reached out, touched the sleeve of her windbreaker. "It's only natural that you'd be curious about your... about Harlan. I'd be happy to fill in whatever blanks I can. Why don't we go somewhere and grab a cup of coffee? We can talk. I'll tell you if you're overstepping."